


Hope Is A What?

by TheDeadAreWalking



Category: Jacksepticeye (RPF), Markiplier (RPF)
Genre: Depression, First Meeting, M/M, poetry based
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDeadAreWalking/pseuds/TheDeadAreWalking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hope is a thing with feathers but that seems a little dumb, don't you think?</p><p>WAS ACCIDENTLY POSTED AS F/F IS ACTUALLY M/M JUST A MISTAKE</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope Is A What?

**Author's Note:**

> So when I read back through this I screamed because if you change ever Mark to Saitama and Jack to Genos and green hair to yellow and blue eyes to gold this is a One Punch Man fic.....oops

Hope, they say, is a thing with feathers. Mark remembers hearing that somewhere in his middle school English class. He remembers thinking, 'A thing with feathers? That makes no sense?'

The teacher had told him it was a metaphor. That hope was being compared to a bird. The poem wasn't happy but it was short and held meaning to him. It stuck his memory for many years, he would often think of it for no particular reason.

Mark promised himself he would never feel the way the poet did. He would never let his bird fly away from him. He diligently hung to that.

Try as he may, and promises forgotten, hope left without him even knowing. The world seemed to drain itself of color into an inky gray backdrop to a mundane and stale life. Words blend into sentences and sentences into conversation and conversation into stored memories of certain people. They held no meaning, he had no reason to care.

Now that being said, Mark wasn't sad, per say. Just wasn't happy. He just was, moving day-to-day through life. Never leaving a mark on anyone or anything just simply eating and breathing. He existed in the backwash of society. A human adult life.

Sometimes Mark would feel empty. He ignored that because loneliness is the last thing he needed to acknowledge. Once you acknowledge something like that it will stain you, life with you, you can't rid yourself of it. But, sometimes, late at night, when it's quiet and the world around him seems to disappear, Mark wishes, just slightly, he had someone. Maybe even just someone to share the empty with.

One day, that probably wasn't going to be memorable in any way, Mark walked into the bookstore. It wasn't somewhere he often went, but it wasn't unoften that he did, he never went often anywhere. Just happening into a store sometimes for no reason other than he did.

Mark walked into a book shop.

And it happened.

It was just a hint of color. Like someone smeared a paint brush through his otherwise gray world. It was green and blue and by God Mark felt something he hadn't felt in years. Something he hadn't known he'd lost.

"Sir?" Mark snapped out of his trance and looked at the color, the man. He had color and hope on him again. It was an unpleasant reminder that Mark didn't. The man asked him a question, it ran in one ear and out the other not relaying the message, the man saw and asked if Mark had heard him. Mark shook his head, he hadn't. He was just staring at the man's color.

"I asked, can I help you?"

Mark felt a spark, a spark he hadn't felt since high school. He felt daring and courageous like he could do anything. All because he finally again saw color, "You could agree to coffee after your shift?" The man glared at Mark. Mark felt his face heat up, what was he thinking? What in the world would a man of this much color want to go out with a man so gray? "I'm sorry. It was a stupid thought. I'll just leave."

Mark made a move to spin around and bolt for the door when he felt a hand grab him, "Jack."

"Huh?" Mark said.

The man smiled, it was blinding, "My name, it's Jack. Well, it's Sean but I'll explain that when we have coffee at 7."

"Seven?" Mark whispered.

Jack smiled, "Yes, seven. Maybe then you can tell me your name and tell me why you looked so lost before."

Mark knew why he looked lost. It's because he was up until a moment ago he had forgotten what color meant, "It's a long story about a crappy poem writing too long ago."

Jack chuckled, "I'll be counting the minutes."

Hope is not a thing with feathers. It does not leave, merely turns gray and dark and heavy until it finds something to bring it back. It doesn't fly away, it simply waits.

**Author's Note:**

> tbh i think this is a weak fic. I don't really like it and don't remember even writing it. But here it is.


End file.
